Xenophile
by Wastelocked-Stories
Summary: ZADR, dub con gay slash, WARNING: mpreg Nerd. Freak. Four eyes. Loser. Xenophile…


The corners of his mouth are swollen, pink, the soft tissue bruised and scarred. They ache when the cold slide of metal pries them open and his brain twitches to try and make a mental note of the uncountable times he's been through this.

1...hurts. Hurts so fucking much! 2...the brain starts to panic, the screaming starts, the tears (even for him) so much pain. 3.…he starts to lose track of time. It's not that it hurts less, he just simply doesn't care. 4...5.…6...he's starting to lose it now. Really lose it.

The twelfth time. His throat is raw and stinging, he's barely sustained on the drip of fluids through the IV in his right arm. He's long given up on feeling humiliated by the situation. Held aloft by rubber piping, stripped bare. His cock hangs lifeless between his legs. Long spent…overspent…

And he's there. Above him. Because he _always _has to be above him…laughing, mocking, jeering. He doesn't shut up but Dib's way past trying to care about whatever nonsense is sliding off that serpentine tongue.

Dib doesn't even care about the why or how anymore. In all respects of the word, Dib is defeated. He doesn't even complain now as the pak legs pry open his mouth with ice cold electric humming metal. He closes his eyes as he feels Zim's dick _squirm. _Yeah, squirm. It can _move, _and the warm fat meat pumps itself past the pak legs, wiggles against Dib's tonsils. In the beginning, Dib gagged, threw up, barely contained whatever breath he had. It didn't stink, it didn't even feel that bad really. It was the concept of it and the acrid taste of that semen that really made Dib sick. Zim didn't even seem to notice or care though. He'd spill himself down that gullet even with Dib's stomach contents dripping to the floor. It's misery, and there's no relief from it.

After a blur of minutes Dib feels the stiffening of blood and muscle, the throb that jolts Zim's dick against the roof of his throat and then there's that horrible dispense of bodily fluids again. Dib swallows it now, so much easier than trying to fight it or spit it out. He can swear, though of course it's just an illusion, that he can feel Zim's sperm slide all the way down to his belly, fill the implanted womb with a sinister purpose. Zim's still there, the ten foot tall pak legs scuttling across the floor to give Zim access to the incubator that's already harvesting seven round eggs. The shells are soft, membrane thin and a sickly green.

Dib's eyes, still keen beneath the sweat and tear stained lenses, can see how big they are. The ruined walls of his ass and the pink puckered hole twitch and clench in horrified anticipation. He'll have them. Have them again…and again…for as long as Zim wishes it.

Because what better way to take over the world? The Armada has abandoned Zim, the Tallest have abandoned Zim, but it was merely fuel to the madness. Now Zim's creating his _own _army. He'll take over the world _without _the help of the Armada, and buy his way back into the Tallest's good graces. And Dib is the host. The worst of it is that as the mutant breed of creature that slides in an egg from his sphincter it presses swollen and hot against his prostate and despite the state he's in - Dib usually comes. The first few times it's just a body-wracking sanity-draining shudder and clench that happens too fast for his dick to react. But then his body starts to get used to it, expects it and when it starts his balls grow heavy with sperm and by the time the last egg is pushed from his body his cock's rock hard and spilling spunk to the floor.

Nerd. Freak. Four eyes. Loser. Xenophile…

But that was a long time ago. Dib can't bring himself to get off anymore. Too many times in too many days and the womb Zim had implanted in him was jacked up with Irken DNA that cut growth time to mere hours. Incubation started in the fluid chamber _outside _of Dib's wrecked body. Thank god for that. Or something…Dib didn't believe in god, especially now.

Several weeks later the first batch hatches. They're removed from the chamber. They grow. They're equipped with paks. They get hungry.

After less than an hour Dib's been subjugated to witnessing some of the more horrible acts of nature. Hunger.

It's not much longer after that when Zim starts screaming for it to stop and scrambling at Dib's weak and useless legs.

And you know what? It feels good. Damn good. And Dib has only one thing to say. One simple thing that has been the saving grace of his sanity and the ignition to the coal of burning hope.

"You want them to stop? Then you'll need _me _around Zim. Because if I'm not around, your little 'army' will just eat you _alive_!"

And it's true. Because there's already an antenna gone.

Zim accepts, reluctantly. The victory is almost worth the suffering Dib endured. Almost.

He still has nightmares.

But when Zim's bowing to _him, _when the Tallest are merely generals to fleets of ships that _Dib _commands, and the outside world is telling _Dib _what a success he is, then it's worth it. It feels good. Great. Perfect. And so so wrong.

Which is exactly what Dib tells himself when he wakes up, cleans the mess of semen from his PJ pants, curses Zim's existence, and goes back to bed.


End file.
